Unless he had whiskey running through his veins, Willard came to the clearing every morning and evening to talk to God. Arvin didn't know which was worse, the drinking or the praying. As far back as he could remember, it seemed that his father had fought the Devil all the time.

The Oxys filled holes in me I hadn't realized were empty. It was, at least for those first few months, a wonderful way to be disabled. I felt blessed.

I don't really think the outburst is recent; there have always been writers in Appalachia.

I've always been a bit of a pessimist in regard to mankind.

I sort of like writing about weird characters, I guess.

Knockemstiff is a collection of short stories set in the holler of the same name in southern Ohio where I grew up. I tried to link the stories together through the place and some recurring characters.

A lot of people get the wrong impression, think there's something romantic or tragic about hitting bottom.